


The Ghost Road

by Paper_Crane_Song



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Episode Related, Episode: s02e23 Regeneration, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, The Borg, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25566718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paper_Crane_Song/pseuds/Paper_Crane_Song
Summary: Malcolm is assimilated.
Relationships: Jonathan Archer & Malcolm Reed, Malcolm Reed & Charles "Trip" Tucker III
Comments: 112
Kudos: 51
Collections: Reed's Armory Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I watched this episode I always thought to myself how lucky Malcolm was not to get assimilated when he’s attacked by that Borg on the transport. Then I wondered what would happen if he did. 
> 
> The title is taken from Pat Barker’s excellent Regeneration trilogy.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and your thoughts and comments are always much appreciated.

Malcolm: _“What sort of people would replace perfectly good body parts with cybernetic implants?”_  


Phlox: _“You, of all people, should be open-minded about technology.”_

Malcolm: _“I don't have a problem with it, as long as it stays outside of my skin.”_

\- Regeneration 

* * *

_“Use extreme caution, Lieutenant... It’s critical you don’t let them touch you.”_

\- Phlox, Regeneration

First iteration

**Malcolm**

The creature’s hand closed around his throat and he was thrust against the wall. Before he could react he felt himself being lifted, and he grabbed at its arm, trying to force it away. Dimly he saw the creature’s other hand, the one currently not in the process of strangling him, coming up towards him. There was a sharp, burning pain in his neck and he began to scream.

**Archer**

He tackled the creature and drove it sideways. Malcolm fell hard, got to his feet and then threw himself into the fray. All three ended up sprawled on the deck, and then Archer ripped at the tubes and the creature short-circuited.

This time Malcolm was slower getting up. He had a dazed quality about him, was holding the side of his neck. If Archer had looked closer he would have seen two small puncture marks there, but more creatures were coming and he was only able to haul Malcolm up and drag him round the corner, firing wildly at the things following them.

“You with me, Lieutenant?” he shouted as they ran.

Malcolm’s response was lost in the sound of phaser fire, but it was a response, nevertheless. Soon they reached the EPS manifold.

“The charges,” Archer said urgently. He could hear the _clump clump_ of boots on metal, more of them approaching, and he held his phase pistol ready in expectation. 

Malcolm fumbled to open the case and so he grabbed it from him and began setting the charges.

“Captain,” he heard Malcolm say and he looked up to see the creatures advancing. Malcolm was firing erratically at them. One went down but the others adapted.

“Enterprise, stand by,” Archer said into his communicator. He just had time to place a third charge when suddenly Malcolm groaned and collapsed in on himself. As he fell, he managed to catch at one of the manifold struts and ended up on all fours.

Archer put an arm round his shoulders. “Enterprise, get us out of here!”

Underneath his grasp, Malcolm was shuddering violently, like he was having some kind of fit.

“We can’t get a lock on Lieutenant Reed, sir, his pattern keeps changing - “

And then finally he saw it, the raised puncture marks on the side of Malcolm’s neck, green tendrils snaking up, up, along the jaw line.

His blood went cold.

Malcolm looked at him then, and he saw pure fear in his eyes.

He felt the familiar tingle of the transporter and just for a second he was seeing Malcolm and the inside of the transporter room at the same time, and then the transporter room became clear and solid and Malcolm was gone. 

* * *

  
“Where’s Lieutenant Reed?” he said as he stepped off the transporter pad.

The crewman operating the transporter was shaking his head as he worked frantically. “I’m still having trouble locking onto him sir - “

And T’Pol’s voice over the comm system, “Captain, they are penetrating the hull -“

Without thinking he went to press the detonator, and then he realised he wasn’t carrying it. Malcolm was. 

Suddenly the ship shook, and both he and the crewman lost their balance for a moment. 

“T’Pol, report.” 

“The transport’s been disabled. So has the alien circuitry.“

Malcolm must have pressed the detonator.

He got to the bridge as quickly as possible. As he emerged from the turbolift T’Pol said, “Our engines and weapons are back online. Did you find the research team?”

He brushed her words aside. “Malcolm’s still over there. Can you tell if he survived the explosion?”

T’Pol’s expression mirrored his own dismay just for an instant before she turned to her computer. Hoshi and Travis shared a worried look.

“Captain, the transport’s systems are being restored,” said Ensign Burrows at the tactical station. “They’re charging weapons.” 

“T’Pol?”

“He’s alive but his signature is too erratic for a viable transport.“

Somehow that made his decision easier. 

“Target their warp core. Hit them with everything we’ve got.” 

“What about Malcolm and the others?” Travis said. 

He looked grimly at his helmsman’s distressed face. “There isn’t anyone on that ship we can help anymore.”

They fired on the transport and Archer braced himself for the shockwave but there was none. He looked at Burrows questioningly. 

“They’ve got partial shields,” Burrows said, “our torpedos had no effect.” His voice had a flutter to it. He sounded scared, Archer noted, scared in a way that Malcolm never did.

“Try - “

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. The ship rocked as the transport opened fire, and he was flung nearly clear out of his chair. 

“Our shields are failing - “

“Life support - “

“Hull breach - “ 

“Get us out of here,” he told Travis, “maximum warp.”

“Aye Captain.”

And then - “Are they in pursuit?” 

“No sir.” 

There was a collective sigh of relief on the bridge. He could see Burrows slump at his station. 

But he did not have the luxury of relaxing. “Maintain present course.“ 

To T’Pol, he said, “See if you can find out where the transport’s headed. And get me Admiral Forrest.”

* * *

Second iteration 

He emerges from his ready room, a black desolation hovering at the edges that he manages to keep at bay with a grim force of will. He has asked for the senior staff to assemble and here they all are, waiting for him in the Situation Room, even Phlox, though he’s still recovering.

_Phlox, T’Pol, Trip, Travis, Hoshi._ He counts them off. And the absence.

“What’d Admiral Forrest say?” asks Trip, ready for action. “Who’s leading the rescue mission?”

He clears his throat. “There isn’t going to be any rescue mission. Based on T’Pol’s predictions of the transport’s course and Phlox’s subspace message, it seems they’re heading back to the Delta Quadrant. Starfleet’s ordered all vessels not to engage.”

“But that’s crazy,” Trip explodes, “don’t they know Malcolm’s on board? And the research team- “

“They know,” Archer says, cutting him off. “They’ve deemed the risk to be too great.”

Trip just looks at him incredulous, his mouth open, his eyes imploring him to do something, and for a second it is Malcolm looking at him, pleading silently as the transporter leaves him behind.

The image threatens to overwhelm him and for a moment he can’t speak. Unexpectedly it is T’Pol who comes to his aid, talking long enough so that he can compose himself. 

“The Vulcan High Command will work with Starfleet and the Tarkaleans to analyse the data from our interactions with these aliens. Perhaps in time we will be able to formulate an appropriate strategy.” She lowers her voice. “The Lieutenant will be greatly missed.”

“But he’s not dead,” Trip says in agitation. “He’s one of  _them_ now. I just can’t stand the idea of him walking around like that.”

Phlox speaks up. “Based on my own experience with these creatures, it seems that once the transformation is complete, the individual selves become absorbed into a sort of collective mind. I doubt very much that Lieutenant Reed will even retain the knowledge of who he is, or that he will be suffering as a result.”

“Do you know that for sure?” Hoshi says softly. 

Phlox has the grace to look abashed. “No, I’m afraid not. But it’s the only comfort I can give myself.” 

Into the silence Archer says, “I don’t know how I’m going to tell his parents.”

Trip looks at him in concern, as if seeing him for the first time. He gives himself a mental shake, pulls himself together. In a stronger voice he starts issuing orders for repairs.

* * *

  
Later, when he cannot in good conscience put it off any longer, he sits at his desk, his screen blank and waiting. 

_ “ Dear Mr. and Mrs. Reed. Your son - “ _

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. He doesn’t know how to even begin to explain the nightmarish fate that has befallen Malcolm. Words like  _cybernetic beings_ and  _surgical alterations_ and  _nanoprobes_ swirl in his mind. However much he cannot bring himself to like Malcolm’s parents, they don’t deserve this news; this staid, somber couple who love their son. 

Without knowing he was going to do so, he starts to cry.

* * *

“Captain Archer,” says Phlox as he enters sickbay. “How can I be of service?” The words are lighthearted enough, but Phlox’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I need something to knock me out at night.”

“Ah. Trouble sleeping?” Phlox says, gesturing to a biobed, and reluctantly he perches on it. 

“For the last three nights. Since Malcolm - “ he breaks off. 

Phlox nods. “I see.”

“I can’t lead Enterprise like this. I need you to give me something, a sedative, or a tranquilliser.“

“What exactly is the problem?” Phlox says, checking his pulse, his pupils. “Nightmares, mid-cycle waking, early morning waking -“

“I just can’t sleep,” he says firmly, putting an end to the doctor’s questions.

“All right.” Phlox goes to his bench, starts pottering around. 

He looks at the biobed next to him. He remembers the Tarkalean lying there, pale and grotesque. A cybernetic hybrid, Phlox had called it. Is that what Malcolm is now?

Is he in pain?

Is he screaming? 

“Found it,” Phlox says, holding up a jar. “Just the thing.”

He slides off the biobed, holding out his hand.

But Phlox doesn’t give him the jar, not right away. Instead he says, “Captain, are you familiar with the term ‘survivor guilt’?” 

“I’ve heard of it,” he says, cautiously.

“People sometimes experience it when they’ve survived a traumatic event that others did not. One of the symptoms is trouble sleeping.”

“And you think I have this survivor guilt because of Malcolm?” He cannot keep the defensive note from his voice. 

But Phlox remains unflappable. “I only suggest it because I’ve been experiencing something similar myself.”

Suddenly the wind is knocked from his sails and he sits down again hard on the biobed.

“You have?”

“When I was infected, I had the luxury of being able to cure myself. And I had my other ‘cure’, as you recall, if I failed. One way or another, I was determined that I would not become one of those creatures. I had a choice. Lieutenant Reed did not.”

“He chose to protect Enterprise,” Archer says, remembering how Malcolm followed him unquestioningly over to the transport.

But Phlox does not seem comforted. “I had a conversation with the Lieutenant about their cybernetic implants. He was horrified by the idea. I told him he should be more open-minded.” He smiles unhappily. “Interesting, isn’t it, what the mind chooses to dwell on.” 

They lapse into silence. For a long time the only sound in sickbay is that of Phlox’s creatures, rustling in their cages.

* * *

Third iteration 

The repairs on the Enterprise keep them all busy. So does compiling the detailed reports for Starfleet. 

When Enterprise answers a distress call and carries out a rescue, it goes some way in dispelling the general feeling of helplessness, at least for a little while.

They hold a service for Malcolm. It is not a memorial service; rather, it is an acknowledgement of the friend who has been taken from them, and it is a pledge that they will not give up looking for a way to save him. Everyone is careful not to speak of him in the past tense.

He opts for simply calling Malcolm’s parents in the end. He was never one for writing letters. He decides to use the word ‘kidnapped’ to explain what has happened, despite its faintly archaic, piratical tones.

“ _Kidnapped_!” Mrs. Reed exclaims.

“Well, what do you intend to do about it?” Mr. Reed says, as if it is a minor inconvenience that has befallen his son.

“Everything in my power,” he answers truthfully. “But you should know that the chances of finding him are - “ he forces himself to say it, “almost nonexistent. We do not expect to see Malcolm again.”

Afterwards, the Reeds will attempt to contact him many times, and he is grateful for Admiral Forrest who takes over the communication, even though he also has the families of the research team to deal with. He suspects that Mr. Reed is more than happy with this arrangement, has the distinct impression that Mr. Reed does not think much of him.

He finds himself seeking out Phlox’s company more and more. Sometimes they talk, and sometimes he studies Phlox’s ongoing research into the nanoprobe technology.

“What did it feel like?” he asks one day, “to be part of a group consciousness?”

And another day - “What do you think they wanted?”

Somehow it helps to talk to Phlox about these things, to speculate what Malcolm’s life might be like now. To pretend to himself that it might not be quite as awful as he imagines.

Trip refuses to talk about it; he’s still furious they’re not doing more to save Malcolm. Sometimes Archer sees accusation in his friend’s eyes.

Every day there is a Malcolm-shaped hole, this ragged gap they all step around. Admiral Forrest tactfully suggests that Enterprise should return to Earth for prolonged shore leave, but he quickly and respectfully declines the suggestion. He doesn’t know how Enterprise will ever get over the loss of her tactical officer, or if they even should, but one thing he’s sure of is that the crew needs to figure it out together. They need to be with each other, sharing the same space with the same gap and the same shared memory of the man who once fit there.

And then one day, one ordinary day, when Enterprise is en-route to a trade negotiation near the Terikof system -

a miracle happens. 


	2. Chapter 2

Except, sometimes miracles don’t look like miracles. Not at first.

“You destroyed the transport?” Archer repeats, in the privacy of his ready room. “Are you sure?” 

Small and grainy though the transmission is, he is still able to see the brief look of displeasure that passes over the Vulcan’s face, and he adds quickly, “I’m sorry, I meant no disrespect - “

“We destroyed it,” Commander Volak says again emphatically, “and sustained significant damage to our own ship in the process.That is why we were not able to notify you of this sooner.”

“Of course.” There is an immense sadness rushing over him, renewed regret at the loss of all those lives, not to mention his armoury officer. And yet there is something else there too, something so small that he cannot even fully recognise it for what it is, except that it is made of light. 

He listens without interrupting to the rest of Commander Volak’s report; the deep space Vulcan survey vessel, set upon by the transport on its way to the Delta Quadrant - ship’s systems rendered inoperable - a journey of weeks rather than days -

and as the details wash over him he thinks _,_ _ at last, Malcolm, you can rest.  _

“I’m indebted to you for bringing us this news,” he says sincerely, and he means it. He has never felt more goodwill towards the Vulcans than he has right now. “It will give us closure. To us humans, that’s very important.”

“Captain,” Volak says and there is a trace of exasperation in his voice now, ”you are confusing my intentions with human sentimentality. I do not bring you this information to give you comfort. It is because we have your officer in our stasis chamber.”

* * *

Fourth iteration

Archer took a shuttlepod over to the ship because the Vulcans’ transporters were still down. He’d asked only Phlox to come, even though T’Pol had strongly hinted that she should also be accompanying them in her capacity as Vulcan science officer. He’d chosen to ignore the hint, preferring to see what they were dealing with first. 

Somehow word had gotten out that the transport had been destroyed, although only Phlox and T’Pol knew the specifics. But Trip had known something was up all the same. 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Trip had said, cornering Archer as he headed to the shuttle bay. 

“Trip - “

“Did they find his body? Why else would you be taking Phlox?”

“I can’t- “

“Let me come with you.”

He sighed and came to a halt in the corridor. He knew Trip had taken the loss of his friend hard, had been living with the ghost of Malcolm over his shoulder - except this was worse than a ghost because Malcolm had been living out his own hellish existence whilst life on Enterprise had carried on as normal. With movie nights, breakfasts in the messhall and stars going supernova. 

He understood Trip’s feelings all too well. But unlike Trip, he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on Malcolm’s fate; he had a whole ship of people to take care of. The gap Malcolm left was a vacuum that the rest of the crew poured into. But for Trip, the gap was a gash, a rent, tearing more and more each day until eventually there would be nothing left. He couldn’t raise Trip’s hopes only to dash them again.

So all he could say was, “I’m sorry, Trip. You’re staying behind,” and he steeled himself against Trip’s expression as he walked away. 

* * *

The shuttle ride over was quiet. Archer didn’t waste words in pointless speculation, and he was relieved to find that Phlox was obviously of the same mind. 

But at the same time there was an anger growing, and it was directed towards the Vulcans. What the hell were they thinking? Didn’t they know how dangerous those nanoprobes were? Weren’t they aware of the very real threat that Malcolm posed to themselves, to their ship, to them all?

And underneath all that was the knowledge that they would likely have to destroy whatever it was inside the stasis chamber. 

And the guilt, for wishing that Malcolm had simply been allowed to die alongside the others.

* * *

Commander Volak was there to greet them as they disembarked, along with an older Vulcan who introduced himself as their physician, and a younger Vulcan who named himself as Sovel, the first officer. As the introductions were made, Archer couldn’t help noticing the state of the ship about him, the repair crews still working. They’d taken quite a beating all right. 

“My officer?” he said, as soon as he decently could. 

“Of course,” Commander Volak said, “we’ll take you to him,” and he gestured for them to accompany him.

“Would you mind telling us how you came to rescue him?” Archer said as they walked.

Was it his imagination or did the Vulcans seem uncomfortable at the word ‘rescue’? He caught a look that passed between their doctor and the first officer, but it was Commander Volak who answered him. 

“We were familiar with your reports on the cybernetic beings, so when the transport decloaked off our port bow we knew it for what it was.”

“But the transport didn’t have a cloaking device,” Archer said, and there was a pang as he remembered Malcolm at his tactical station, saying, _“Those transports aren’t usually armed.”_

“Clearly they had upgraded its systems. Nevertheless, we were able to make sufficient use of your observations to protect ourselves effectively, and to take destructive action. A boarding party transported over to their ship, and that was when your officer was found.”

“Found?” Archer echoed as they stepped around a damaged part of the deck. “I don’t understand. How did you know it was Lieutenant Reed?”

“He spoke to us,” said Sovel. Archer looked at him incredulously. Beside him, Phlox was frowning, and yet Sovel remained unperturbed.

“Sub-Commander Sovel led the boarding party,” Volak explained. “Go on, Sub-Commander.”

“Lieutenant Reed was inside one of the alcoves,” Sovel said, walking with his hands clasped behind his back. “After he alerted us to his presence, our scans revealed he had only been partially assimilated. Furthermore, his Starfleet uniform - “

“What do you mean, ‘ _partially assimilated_ ’?” Archer said, trying to keep his distress from showing. He couldn’t help but flinch at the detached, clinical way that Sovel was speaking.

“You will understand when you see him,” Volak said quickly, before Sovel could respond. “Suffice to say that from the scans taken by the boarding party, it appeared that the nanoprobes in Lieutenant Reed’s system were inactive. I deemed the level of risk acceptable enough to have him transported into one of our stasis chambers.”

They came to a halt outside the sickbay. Volak looked at Archer intently, and when he spoke next, his words were slow and deliberate. “As a Starfleet officer, I am sure you understand the very great strategic importance of having a living, cybernetic humanoid in stasis.”

He blinked, and then it dawned on him that this was not a rescue after all.

Volak mistook his silence for agreement and continued, “No doubt Starfleet will want to avail itself of the wealth of scientific expertise and techniques that the Vulcan High Council has to offer. Indeed, we anticipate to be working closely with Starfleet in both obtaining and analysing the data gained from a live test subject. After all, autopsy reports can only reveal so much.”

He stared back at the Vulcan, sickened, and was saved from having to reply because Phlox interrupted at that point. “I would appreciate seeing the Lieutenant for myself. I am still his doctor.”

“Of course.” The Commander keyed in the access code and the sickbay door opened. He saw the stasis chamber sitting there in the middle of the room, like a coffin.

He walked slowly towards it, compelled and yet also reluctant, afraid of what he would see. The Vulcan officers guarding the chamber stood aside for him, and, with his heart beating fast, he looked inside. 

Perhaps it would’ve been easier if Malcolm had looked more like those cybernetic beings, skeletal and staring, a metal skin soldier, and less like his usual self.

Because he looked just as Archer remembered him, or near enough, aside from the node at his temple. His hair was perhaps a little longer, his face dark and streaked with grime and ash, and yet underneath the dirt he seemed strangely flushed, as if he’d stood under a noonday sun for too long.

“He has third degree burns,” Phlox said next to him, and that shook him out of himself. He looked to where Phlox was scanning with his tricorder and saw the remains of the jumpsuit, charred cloth and flesh fused. “Extensive, by the looks of them. They’re infected.”

“The charges around the EPS manifold,” Archer said, and suddenly it hurt to talk. “He probably wasn’t able to get far enough away before he detonated them.” They hadn’t managed to set all of the charges, otherwise the transport would have certainly been destroyed. As it was, Malcolm’s last act of heroism had done just enough damage for Enterprise to slip away.

He swallowed hard. In his imaginings of what Malcolm’s life had been like, they hadn’t included this dimension of suffering; that Malcolm had been severely injured in the explosion and that his wounds had gone untreated. Or had he just deliberately not allowed himself to think of it? 

“Yes,” Phlox said then, “there’s other trauma consistent with a blast wave,” and Archer forced himself to pay attention. “Although - curious.”

“What is it?”

Phlox frowned at his tricorder. “There is evidence of advanced cellular regeneration.“

“If I may interrupt, doctor,” the Vulcan physician said, “I have a theory that may explain this.“

Phlox gave him a congenial wave. “By all means.”

The physician bowed, and then said, “Captain Archer, in your report you stated that Lieutenant Reed came into contact with one of the creatures shortly before the charges were detonated.”

“That’s right,” he said, recalling the frantic dash towards the EPS manifold, the solid weight of Malcolm leaning on him, the sound of phaser fire drowning out what Malcolm was saying. Had Malcolm been trying to tell him that something was wrong? 

With a conscious effort he pushed the memory away. “It couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes.”

The physician nodded. “I posit that the nanoprobes had not multiplied in sufficient numbers before Lieutenant Reed sustained his injuries. The nanoprobes then started repairing the wounds, but the overall tissue loss and subsequent infection rendered their action ineffectual, so they ceased to function.” He tilted his head. “One might say that it was illogical for them to continue.”

“But he’s still alive,” Archer said.

“Barely,” said Phlox gravely. “The Lieutenant is suffering from septicaemia and shows signs of early organ failure. Under normal circumstances, he’d be dead within days.”

He struggled to understand. “You said you found him in one of those alcoves,” he said to Sovel. “Could that be what was keeping him alive?”

“It is difficult to speculate without the appropriate data,” said Sovel blandly, the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug. “Perhaps he was being preserved for parts.”

He closed his eyes and turned away slightly so that the Vulcans wouldn’t see. 

“Captain?” said Phlox at his elbow. Beyond Phlox, the three Vulcan officers were regarding him as if he was a curiosity, and he felt a flare of anger.

“What did he say?” he demanded. 

There was a collective frown. “Captain?” Volak said.

“You said Lieutenant Reed spoke to your men when they beamed over. What did he say?”

Volak fumbled slightly, unused to being questioned in this way. “I do not know. In any case, it was irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant?” he began, and Sovel swiftly interjected.

“I believe he said, ‘help me.’”

In the ensuing silence, Archer reflected that suddenly Malcolm had made things very easy for him.

He drew himself up and said decisively, “I need to consult with my senior staff. In the meantime, I’d appreciate all the information you have on Lieutenant Reed’s condition.”

Phlox interpreted his signal to leave and started packing away his medical equipment.

Volak watched them, obviously disconcerted at the abruptness of their departure. “May I ask what it is that you intend to do?” 

Archer looked the Commander full in the eye. “I intend to help him.”   
  



	3. Chapter 3

Fifth iteration 

Plans, preparations, and Malcolm Reed lay silent throughout, heavily sedated and in restraints onboard Shuttlepod One whilst Doctor Phlox grafted skin and healed bone, and Enterprise watched anxiously from a distance, weapons locked onto the shuttle, ready to fire at the first sign of the nanoprobe technology reactivating. 

It was well that Malcolm was unconscious, otherwise he would have seriously deplored the amount of risk that the crew of the Enterprise was willing to undertake to save him; Trip and Phlox, reconfiguring the transporters to painstakingly eradicate the nanotechnology from his body, retrofitting Shuttlepod One into a sickbay-cum-brig. Not to mention the wider-reaching political implications of their actions; T’Pol running interference from the Vulcans whilst Archer handled Starfleet Command. 

And it all came down to this. Watching. Waiting. 

Phlox had temporarily moved into the shuttlepod whilst he treated Malcolm. The crew hadn’t seen him in days, though they kept an open comm link for progress reports. 

At times Archer wondered if they were doing the right thing. He recalled the brief shuttle ride back to Enterprise from the Vulcan ship, how his hands had shaken as he’d accessed the controls. 

“Are you all right?” Phlox had said quietly in the seat next to him. 

“I’m fine,” he’d answered tersely. 

But Phlox had nodded, choosing to respond to what had gone unsaid. “Hmm. Yes. I too found the Lieutenant’s condition rather shocking.”

The dimness of the shuttle’s cockpit felt like a confessional, and it was only within the privacy of its confines that he allowed himself to give voice to his fears. “How do you come back from something like that?”

Phlox quirked his head. “We know it’s possible. At least, it was possible for me. We have no reason to suppose the same won’t be true for Lieutenant Reed. And don’t forget,” he added, “human beings are one of the most resilient species I’ve ever come across. I trust the Lieutenant to be no exception.” 

* * *

“Captain Archer?” Phlox’s voice over the comm system, breaking into his thoughts, and he sat up straight in the Captain’s chair. 

“Go ahead.”

“I’m ready to revive him.”

There was a tangible change in the air. Feeling all eyes on him, Archer stood and went over to T’Pol’s station, where she was meticulously monitoring Malcolm’s biosigns. 

“You’re sure?” he replied, anchoring himself in T’Pol’s calm demeanour. 

“I’ve treated his injuries to the best of my abilities. There’s not much more I can do for him whilst he’s unconscious. He’ll need extensive physiotherapy, as well as treatments with my osmotic eel, not to mention- “

“I get the idea,” he said, holding up his hand. “What I meant was, are you sure it’s safe?”

He could almost hear Phlox’s shrug over the comm system. “I’ve been gradually decreasing the amount of sedative in his system, and there’s been no sign of any nanoprobe reoccurrence.”

He looked at T’Pol for confirmation, and she nodded.

“And he’s sedated now?”

“Only just. He’s in no more than what you and I would call a light sleep. Indeed, I would have expected any new nanoprobe activity to have happened by now.”

He absorbed the information, then said, “I’m coming across.”

T’Pol frowned at the sudden change of plan. “Captain, I would highly advise against - “

“Noted. Maintain weapons lock on the shuttle. Get Commander Tucker up here to assist you. You have the bridge.”

He walked briskly to the transporter room. It was cowardly of him, to avoid Trip like that, but he didn’t want Trip talking him out of it, or worse, insisting on going in his place. 

It had to be him. He was the one who’d started them on this course of action, and he had to be there to finish it. Besides, he was reluctant to leave Phlox alone. Even if his presence could contribute nothing except solidarity, he could not let Phlox risk his life without also being willing to risk his.

And yet there was something else too, something less honourable and more selfish. He needed to see Malcolm for himself, needed a new image to wash away the old one of Malcolm in the stasis chamber, endlessly dying, and the older one still, of the transport and Malcolm on his knees, and the look on his face, knowing full well what was happening to him and knowing that Enterprise was leaving him behind.

* * *

He materialised inside the shuttlepod. Phlox glanced at him and nodded as he bustled round the biobed.

Now out of the stasis chamber, lying in sickbay-grey fatigues, Malcolm looked diminished. His arms, exposed and thin in his T-shirt had lost much of their muscle tone, and the metal restraints encasing them seemed to dominate them. 

Then Malcolm turned his head and Archer jumped back. 

“I told you,” Phlox said, chastising, “he’s only lightly sedated.”

Malcolm mumbled something unintelligible and shifted again, restless, unhappy. Now that he was no longer flushed with fever, his pallor more resembled that of those creatures, and Archer felt a sense of foreboding.

He shook it off and said, “Archer to Enterprise.”

“Tucker here.” He detected a note of reproof in the engineer’s voice. Obviously Trip wasn’t too happy about the change in plans either. 

“We’re about to wake him. Stand by.” He nodded at Phlox.

Phlox reached for the hypospray. “It’s usual for patients coming round from sedation to be disoriented. Keeping talking to him.”

“Understood.”

Phlox pressed the hypospray against Malcolm’s neck and Malcolm started to stir. After a moment he opened his eyes. 

He cleared his throat. “Malcolm, it’s Captain Archer.” Malcolm looked drowsily about him, searching for the source of the voice and then his gaze came to rest on Archer. 

He hesitated. Phlox nodded encouragingly from his place over by the monitor.

“It’s July fifteenth, 2153. We’re onboard Shuttlepod One with Enterprise off our bow.” 

Malcolm craned his neck, trying to see for himself and then frowned to find his movement restricted. His tendons flexed as he pulled on the restraints. 

“They’re just a precaution.” One he knew his armoury officer would have insisted upon. “We’ll remove them as soon as we can.” 

Malcolm’s gaze found him again, and it seemed clearer now.

“Captain?” 

“Yes.” He couldn’t contain his relief. “Welcome home, Lieutenant.”

He wasn’t sure what happened next. A rictus of fright passed over Malcolm’s face. At the same time an alarm started blaring.

“The nanoprobes?” Archer shouted, as Malcolm began fighting against the restraints in earnest. 

Phlox shook his head, peering at the biosigns. “His heart rate.” In a louder voice he said, “You need to calm down, Lieutenant.” 

But Malcolm had ceased to listen. He kept making an awful keening sound as he twisted, and when Phlox sedated him again he slumped abruptly, skewed and awry on the biobed. 

In the sudden silence, Archer and Phlox looked at each other. “That went well,” Phlox said cheerily, with no hint of sarcasm. 

Archer stared at him incredulously. “I’m sorry?” Malcolm’s distress still lingered heavily, and he felt faintly sick. 

“He recognised you,” said Phlox, matter-of-factly. “He spoke to you. And there was no sign of nanoprobe resurgence. Yes, I’d say it went very well indeed.” 

As Phlox contacted Enterprise to confirm his findings, Archer moved closer to the biobed. Whereas he’d hesitated to touch Malcolm before, now he did so instinctively. He tried to reposition Malcolm to lie straighter on the bed, tugged down his T-shirt where it had ridden up about his ribs, but the restraints made it impossible to settle him in such a way that looked restful. 

Then he noticed the goosebumps on Malcolm’s arms, his bare feet, and he felt a surge of anger. If Malcolm was going to believe that he was safe then he needed to  _feel_ safe, and that meant being warm and comfortable, not strapped flat on his back to a biobed in a cold shuttlecraft. Maybe Phlox as a Denobulan couldn’t understand the human connotations of safety and security, but he did, and all he was seeing right now was a lack of them. 

He stood there, helpless and upset, half-listening to T’Pol’s report, watching Malcolm toss and turn in his chemically-induced slumber. 

“The Sub-Commander and Mr. Tucker agree,” Phlox said, signing off. “Mr. Reed’s signature remained fully human throughout. No untoward activity.” 

“Good. Let’s get these off him.” Without waiting for a reply he started undoing the restraints. After a moment’s pause, Phlox joined in to help. 

When it came to raising the biobed so Malcolm could sit up, he struggled with the mechanism and was close to cursing with frustration. Phlox took over wordlessly and he stepped back, suddenly overcome with the horror of it all. Not just for Malcolm, but for all those people on the research team, and the Tarkaleans, and the people who loved them. That such evil could exist in the universe, and that he was unable to keep his crew safe from it. 

He was aware of Phlox gazing quizzically at him. “Captain, you were not to blame for what happened to Lieutenant Reed. Neither are you responsible for his recovery.” 

He did not trust himself to speak, but Phlox seemed to understand all the same.

Then Phlox produced a blanket. He took it sheepishly, ashamed of his earlier ill feelings towards the Denobulan, and set about tucking the blanket around Malcolm, appreciating the softness and thickness of it, placing Malcolm’s arms above the blanket so he wouldn’t feel restricted. He knew Malcolm would feel heartily embarrassed about his commanding officer tending to him like this and he didn’t care. He needed to do this, as much for himself as for Malcolm. Doing this brought him comfort, and a kind of peace.

When he’d finished, Phlox said, “Take a seat, Captain,” and gestured to the stool beside the bed. “In a while, we’ll try again.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sixth iteration: Trip

His last memory of Malcolm isn’t so much a memory as an impression. They’d been taking a look at the circuitry, trying to figure out what those creatures had done to it. He can’t remember what he’d said, or what Malcolm had said, so much as the sense of familiarity about it.

More and more, they’d been seeking each other out, helping with whatever the other happened to be working on at the time. Malcolm in particular was perfectly content to stand at his side and hand him things, or check his calculations, or reroute systems. At first he wondered at it, but then he realised that for them, this was their equivalent of hanging out. When he spent time with the Captain, they watched water polo. When he hung out with Malcolm, they fixed power relays. 

He found it amusing that, freed from any expectation to talk during those times, Malcolm would become a regular chatterbox, whereas he himself in contrast would be concentrating so hard that he’d end up tuning Malcolm out. As he had done when they’d been examining that circuitry.

He vaguely recalls Malcolm speculating on the intentions of those creatures. Remembers Malcolm coming to stand beside him, handing him a micro-caliper. Saying something about phase pistols. Then Malcolm had left for the armoury, and he’d registered his going a second too late. 

Then the transport, when only the Captain returned.

_“There isn’t going to be any rescue mission.”_

He misses Malcolm in a way that he can’t explain. He’ll be holed up in a maintenance shaft somewhere, knee deep in circuits, so used to Malcolm’s presence that he’ll turn to ask him something and find he isn’t there.

Or he’ll arrive in the mess hall and instinctively scan the tables for him. One time he happened to make eye contact with Hoshi and she smiled sadly at him, as if she knew who he was looking for. 

The absence of Malcolm is this solid ache that lies heavy on his chest, so that when he wakes each day the sensation is there before he can even remember why.

* * *

When Archer and Phlox arrive back from the Vulcan ship, he makes sure he is there to meet them in the launchbay. The shuttlepod door opens and the Captain steps out, looking pale and worn.

This does not deter him. 

“So you gonna tell me what’s going on now?”

Phlox shares a look with the Captain and says, “I’ll be in sickbay,” leaving them alone. 

“Well?”

“Trip - “

“Tell me,” he grinds out, “was it him or not?”

Archer takes pity on him. “Yes.”

He gives a single, soldier-like nod. “Good,” he says in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own. “Now we know.” The ache in his chest is weighing even heavier now, and he turns away, forcing air into his lungs. 

The Captain is saying something else and he doesn’t hear it at first. It is only when the Captain grips his arm tightly and makes him look that he registers what the Captain is saying. “He’s not dead, Trip. He’s still alive.” 

* * *

From what he can gather, the first time they woke Malcolm was bad. The second time was better.

“Doctor Phlox wants to transfer him over to sickbay as soon as possible,” Archer says, addressing the senior staff. “There’ll be some precautions we need to take.” 

When he finally gets to see Malcolm, Phlox isn’t too pleased about his coming. “I can only allow a few minutes at most. He needs time to adjust.”

Privately, Trip thinks that Malcolm would adjust a whole lot quicker if he wasn’t kept locked up in sickbay. But he has to admit that they’re not out of the woods just yet; there might be nanotechnology on a quantum level that the computers aren’t able to detect, or other risks that they can’t even conceive of. They can’t afford to let their guard down, even now. However much they want to.

He has the Captain to thank for persuading Phlox to let him visit. 

“Just go easy on him,” the Captain had said at dinner, after giving him the good news. “He’s not quite himself yet.”

He pushes away the rest of the meatloaf. “What do you mean?” 

Archer pauses, as if searching for the right way to say it. “He’s a little... on the quiet side.”

“So what else is new?” Despite his words, a knot is forming in his stomach. He can sense there is something else that the Captain isn’t telling him. “Did he say anything about - where he was?”

“No. He hasn’t really said much of anything.”

“He’s going to be all right though, isn’t he? I mean, Phlox thinks he’ll be okay?”

“Yes, he thinks so.” 

“But....?”

Archer smiles then in mild exasperation, and leans back in his chair. “But nothing, Trip. He knows who he is, where he is. Who we are. He’s just not saying a great deal yet.”

“That’s understandable,” he says, defensive on behalf of his friend. “After all he’s been through.”

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you - go easy on him. Don’t expect too much.”

Now that he’s actually in sickbay, he feels uncharacteristically nervous. He’s seen Malcolm already of course, in the stasis chamber, but he hadn’t let himself believe that his friend was really back. Not when the odds of failure were so high, and the consequences so final. 

He can feel Phlox’s eyes on him as he walks past. Then there is one of Malcolm’s guys, phase pistol in hand, trying his best to look part of the scenery. 

And finally there is Malcolm. 

Malcolm is sitting up in bed, stiffly, carefully, reading a padd, and it is so unremarkable a scene that it doesn’t feel real. He wants to reach out and grab Malcolm by the shoulders to make sure he’s really there, but the safety perimeter separates them and he has to keep his distance. So instead he just stands there, gazing at him, drinking him in.

Then Malcolm looks up and the spell is broken. 

“Hello Malcolm,” he says softly, so as not to startle him.

Malcolm keeps looking at him, then he says, “Trip.”

“Yeah.” He feels a thrill of warmth at hearing Malcolm say his name, and his eyes start to burn. “How you holding up?”

Malcolm doesn’t reply at first. “It’s been a long time,” he says finally.

He laughs, and it catches in his throat. “It sure has.”

Malcolm looks down again, fidgeting with his padd.

“How you holding up?” he says again.

There is no answer.

Maybe the question is too huge, too vague, and so he tries for an easier one.

“What you reading there?”

It takes a moment for Malcolm to understand what he’s referring to. Then he lifts up the padd. “Mission logs.”

“Filling in the gaps?”

“Something like that.”

“Good idea.” Except, he’s not so sure that it is; although knowing Malcolm, he probably asked for it. He doesn’t think this is something Malcolm should be doing by himself. He wants to tell Malcolm his own version of the missing time, and for Malcolm to tell him his.

“You went to a lot of trouble to bring me back,” Malcolm says then, a question hovering in his words.

He shrugs. “I guess we did.”  


That’s an understatement. The Captain had come within a hair’s breadth of jeopardising his career with Starfleet, and at one point the future of Starfleet-Vulcan relations looked to be in serious doubt. But he does not say any of this. He doesn’t want to make his guilt-prone friend feel any more guilty. And yet Malcolm’s a bright guy. He can probably infer the ramifications of their actions from the mission logs.

Malcolm’s still looking worried, so he smiles and says, “It was worth it though.”

Malcolm does not answer. He stays quiet for a while, and then, looking fixedly at the padd, he says, “Captain Archer said the others are all gone.”

”Right.” His smile falls away. “After the Vulcans found you, they destroyed the transport.”

“Yes. The Captain said that.” But Malcolm does not seem comforted. He is gripping the padd very hard. “There are more of them in the Delta Quadrant.”

“Did you read that in the logs?”

Malcolm shakes his head. “I could sense them.” A shadow passes over his face, and his mouth tightens as he looks away.

He wishes he could move closer, so that he can try and understand, and to show Malcolm that he’s not alone. But all he can do is hold his breath and wait for Malcolm to say more, and for a moment it seems like he might. Malcolm looks back at him, hesitant, as if making sure of him. But before he can say anything, Phlox appears suddenly, making them both start. 

“No need to worry, Lieutenant. As you well know, the Delta Quadrant is many light years away. We won’t be seeing those creatures again in our lifetime.”

He is annoyed by Phlox’s intrusion, but then his annoyance is quickly forgotten as he catches sight of Malcolm’s expression. Instead of being reassured, he seems even more troubled.

“I could hear them before, in my head. Now I can’t.”

“Yes, I heard them too,” Phlox says, addressing himself to Trip, as if keen to confirm the truth of Malcolm’s words. “It was a rather disturbing experience to say the least.”

“It’s very quiet now,” he hears Malcolm say softly, but Phlox doesn’t hear him at all.

“I’m afraid your time is up, Commander. Lieutenant Reed has some physical exercises to do, and he needs to rest first.”

He wants to protest but something in Phlox’s eyes says it would be futile to try, so he nods tightly. “Understood.” Satisfied, Phlox moves away.

“I’ll come back and see you tomorrow,” he tells Malcolm, even though Phlox hasn’t agreed to it yet. 

“I’ll be here,” Malcolm says in a long-suffering tone that is so familiar that he grins and has to stop himself from reaching out and clapping him on the shoulder.

“It’s good to have you back, Malcolm.”

But Malcolm responds just a fraction too late, as if he’s reading the lines from a script. “Thank you Commander. It’s good to be back.”

On his way out, he says in an undertone to Phlox, “Are you sure he’s okay?”

Phlox is preparing a medical tray. “The Lieutenant has been through a terrible ordeal by anyone’s standards. I suspect he’s feeling rather overwhelmed at the moment.” Phlox smiles kindly at him, and his manner is reassuring, competent. “Give him time, Commander.”

He looks over at Malcolm again and finds him watching them. He gives him a half-wave, and across the sickbay Malcolm raises his hand slightly in response.  


Inexplicably, the ache in his chest is back, and when he turns away to leave it feels for all the world like he’s abandoning him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line in italics is taken from a poem by e e cummings.

Seventh iteration: Malcolm 

_Here is the deepest secret nobody knows._

After he presses the detonator, the explosion flings him across the deck into a bulkhead. He falls to the floor, crumpled, and stares unblinking into the fiery darkness above him. 

Smoke drifts over him, pierced with green light that reflects and dances strangely. 

There is no pain. Instead, he can sense the damage to the transport, the severing of critical components and the leaking of plasma coolant, and yet transcending all of this is an incredible feeling of  _rightness_ as the collective mind begins to heal the ship. It reminds him of a flock of birds, flying so closely in formation that it is impossible to separate one from the whole, and he is joining them, whirling and wheeling even as his body is lying broken on the deck.

* * *

For a long time he knows nothing else. He is part of everyone, and they are part of him, and together they are part of the ship, the organic and the inorganic components, working in perfect harmony. 

But the voices are becoming increasingly discordant, splitting, shrieking. Something is very wrong. There is biting pain now, sweating cold and trembling warmth, and the fevered memories of a different ship, and a different crew.

_His second birthday onboard Enterprise. He is presented with a birthday cake in the messhall. People are singing._

_Trip laughs at his expression. “Your secret’s out,” he says, smiling sideways at him. “It’s tradition now. You’ll be getting pineapple cake on your birthday until the day you die.”_

He does not want to remember that other life. He wants the hive mind to swallow him up and grind his essence away until there is nothing left. Yet he is being rejected, spat out. He is diminishing into this small, vulnerable self, contained within a regeneration alcove, and it is terrifying. 

Then one day he sees figures passing by, and he calls out to them, trying to form the words. 

“Help me.” 

They do not stop, and so he pushes the words out again, a screech. 

“Help me!” 

_Help me get back to the birds_

He is weeping now, desperate, and when they finally hear him he sags in relief. 

But he is wrong. There are no more birds. There are no more voices. There is nothing.

* * *

  
“It’s July fifteenth, 2153. We’re onboard Shuttlepod One with Enterprise off our bow.” 

At first he thinks he’s back in the regeneration alcove, held fast by tubes and wires, but someone is saying his name and speaking words that are so familiar that he can’t help but respond. 

“Captain?”

“Yes.” The voice laughs. “Welcome home.”

It takes a moment for the awful significance of the words to sink in. Then he can’t stop screaming.

* * *

_ Here is the deepest secret nobody knows. _

“Malcolm?”

Time has passed. He opens his eyes and the Captain is still there. And Phlox, moving about behind him. They are so bright and so full of colour that he recoils away.

“Where are the others?”

The Captain looks at Phlox. “You mean the others - on the transport?”

He nods jerkily, breathing hard and fast between clenched teeth. His heart is slamming against his chest.

“The Vulcans destroyed their ship. There was no one left.”

His hands bunch into fists in the blanket. He hears Phlox saying something about a tranquilliser, and he blurts out, “They’re all gone?”

“Yes,” the Captain says, “so you’re safe now. You needn’t be afraid.”

Then Phlox presses a hypospray against his neck and everything becomes muted, dulled.

They tell him things and he absorbs the information silently. He has trouble following what they’re saying.

They smile at him reassuringly. 

* * *

  
He wakes next in sickbay, and Phlox fusses around him. The surroundings are intimately familiar, down to the colour of the walls and the smell of animals and hay.

It all feels unwelcome and wrong.

He asks to see the mission logs, and reluctantly Phlox agrees. At first he rails against the tangle of words and the slow, linear chronology; such an inefficient, tedious method of data transferral. But he is able to read enough to confirm the validity of the Captain’s story. The transport has been obliterated, and he is alone.

And yet as he stares hard at the screen, he can’t help but notice something else, too: the very great pain the crew suffered when he was lost to them, and the very great efforts they took to retrieve him. These people, who are dear to him, and whom he loves, in a way that he thinks he should love his family, but doesn’t, except for Madeleine, perhaps. 

“When you’re ready to talk about your experience, then I will be here for you,” Doctor Phlox tells him gravely. “I do not presume to understand the extent of your ordeal, nor the distress it must have caused you, but I’d like to think I can understand more than most what you’ve been through.”

He thanks him automatically with leaden eyes and growing despair. They will not understand. 

As the sickbay lights dim for the night, he lies back on the biobed and tries to recapture how it felt to be part of the hive mind. But the sensation is fading. The only things he can remember are birds, soaring, and the knowledge that, for a little while, he was part of something more precious and more beautiful than he could ever dream of.

And now it is gone. 


	6. Chapter 6

Eighth iteration: Trip

Malcolm is sitting on the edge of the biobed, head between his knees, a bowl next to him. 

“Just a moment, Commander,” Phlox says brusquely as he attends to him, and Trip halts in his tracks. 

“I can come back later,” he begins uncertainly. There is no reply so he stays, studiously examining the floor, trying to give his friend the illusion of privacy. It’s just the three of them in sickbay; there’s no security guard present now, or perimeter for that matter. 

Then Phlox nods, apparently satisfied. “Lieutenant Reed overdid it a little with his physical therapy,” he explains as he clears away the bowl and towels. “He should be all right in a moment or two.”

Trip steps closer. Malcolm is attempting to sit upright, but when Trip puts a supporting hand on his back, Malcolm shrugs him off. “I can manage,” he snaps. 

“Sorry,” Trip says, holding up his hands.

Now that Malcolm is sitting up, he looks terrible. His face is bone-white, exhausted, and he’s drenched in sweat. 

“Drink this, Lieutenant,” Phlox says, coming back with a foil sachet. “Some good old-fashioned electrolytes.”

Malcolm accepts it with a look of disgust. “I don’t see why you couldn’t have just finished all this treatment when I was in the stasis chamber.”

“As I told you before, Mister Reed,” Phlox says patiently, and Trip gets the feeling he’s just walked into the middle of something, “You need to be awake for the exercises to be effective. Modern medicine can only do so much.”

“I’d hardly call this modern. It’s practically medieval. You may as well be using leeches on me.” 

The animosity in Malcolm’s voice is surprising, but as ever, Phlox is unflappable. “That reminds me; I need to prepare my Regulan blood worms. Say what you like, but they are excellent little creatures for preventing scar contracture. Now drink up.”

Malcolm shakes his head, muttering under his breath. 

Trip thinks about saying, “ _You know, every second Phlox spent on that shuttle with you he was putting his life at risk,”_ but then he sees the way Malcolm’s hand is shaking as he holds the sachet.

So instead he perches next to Malcolm on the biobed, deliberately sitting close so that their shoulders are touching. The kind of mood Malcolm’s in, he doesn’t think he’ll be much accepting of comfort, but Trip needs this at least, needs to feel Malcolm there next to him, solid, warm, and very much alive. Thankfully, Malcolm doesn’t move away.

“You okay?” 

Malcolm lets out a huff of air. “What do you think? No I’m not ‘okay’, it bloody hurts.” 

Trip looks down at his clasped hands. 

“Sorry,” Malcolm says then, in a quieter, contrite voice. 

He shrugs, and he knows Malcolm can feel the gesture. He wants to convey how fine, how totally fine it is, for Malcolm to be sharp and irritable with him. To be _anything_ with him. To just be here, with him. 

“So when’s Phlox letting you out?”

But Malcolm has drifted into a reverie, and Trip has to repeat the question. 

“I don’t know. He hasn’t said.” The fire has gone now, and he seems apathetic, listless.

After a couple more abortive attempts at conversation, Trip gives up and settles for just sitting there next to him as they wait for Phlox to return. He can feel the pressure of Malcolm’s arm against his, the sour smell of sweat, the sound of his breathing. All of it is a gift. 

* * *

“Commander,” Phlox says later with a conspiratorial air, “I was wondering if you’d be so kind as to take Lieutenant Reed out sometime. Air him, so to speak. The change of scenery would do him good, not to mention providing him with a focus for his physical exercise.”

“Sure,” he says, surprised but pleased to be asked, “I’d be happy to.”

And so the next day he finds Malcolm waiting for him, a crutch resting against the foot of the biobed. 

The artificiality of the situation makes him feel a little awkward. “Ready for your walk?” 

Malcolm rolls his eyes. “You make me sound like Porthos.”

He grins. “Where do you want to go? We could head to the messhall, or swing by the armoury if you’d like, or engineering - “

“The messhall’s fine.”

Malcolm eases himself off the bed slowly, and Trip offers him the crutch. Hetakes it, unable to hide his flash of frustration. 

They set off down the corridor, Malcolm shuffling, his gait painful and slow. As they walk, Trip talks to him about the recent upgrades they’ve made to the ship, but he can tell Malcolm isn’t really listening. Malcolm is concentrating hard on putting one foot in front of the other and he’s tiring fast, and when he stumbles for the second time Trip says, “How about we take a break?” 

He expects Malcolm to refuse but instead Malcolm just nods and sags against the bulkhead, breathing hard. 

“You’re doing fine,” Trip says, because he has to say something. Malcolm’s expression worries him. It’s despondent, bleak even, as if he can’t see any point to it. 

“You’ve done this before,” he continues. “Remember when that mine went through your leg? Phlox had you doing all kinds of physical therapy.”

“Until we found that station.”

“Right.” He winces at the memory. “Not gonna be running into another one of those any time soon. My point is, it’ll get better.”

Finally Malcolm smiles slightly. “That computer would certainly come in useful right now.”

“Yeah well, looks like we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.” He taps Malcolm’s shoulder. “Come on.”

On the way they are passed by various crewmen, all of whom stop and welcome Malcolm back. The effort of interacting with them costs him, and when they finally reach the messhall Malcolm looks like he’s about to faint. 

Trip steers him toward the nearest table. “Here,” he says, pushing him into a chair. “Just sit tight, okay?” When he’s sure Malcolm isn’t going to keel over, he says, “I’ll go see if Chef’s got any leftovers. There’s gotta be some reward for reaching the messhall.”

It’s mid-afternoon and the place is quiet. Apart from a couple of crewmen sitting by the window, they’re the only ones here.

When he’s over by the hatch he sees that the crewmen have gone to greet Malcolm on their way out. When he returns, tray in hand, they have already left.

“You okay?” he says, sitting down. Malcolm has an odd expression on his face. “Malcolm?”

Malcolm blinks. “Fine. It’s just a little overwhelming.”

“What is?” 

“Seeing everyone again. I hadn’t imagined my absence would affect them quite so much.”

“Are you kidding? Wait until you see Hoshi. You know she’s going to hug you, however hard you fight it.” He pushes a plate towards Malcolm. “Here.”

“Pineapple cake.” And Malcolm smiles now, the first genuine smile Trip has seen since he’s been back. “I suppose Chef just happened to have some lying around, did he?”

He shrugs. “I might have tipped him off that we were coming.”

“And it’s not even my birthday.” 

“Hey - “

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm says, embarrassed, furiously pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, “Phlox’s got me on so many drugs I can barely think straight - “

“Don’t be sorry,” he says fervently. He’s tired of platitudes, of everyone saying and doing what’s expected of them. He’s not the same person he was before all this happened, and he doubts Malcolm is either. And their friendship, the shape of it, is different, too; it has to be, to withstand the changes in each of them. He wants to say something true, something that matters.

“When you were gone, it was like a part of us was gone too. Every day you weren’t here felt wrong, like part of the ship was missing. We all felt it. You won’t find a single person onboard Enterprise who isn’t glad you’re back.”

Malcolm still looks unconvinced and so Trip leans across and with the palm of his hand he clasps the back of Malcolm’s head and draws him close so that their foreheads are touching. Malcolm sighs, a deep shuddering breath that hitches, but he doesn’t pull away.

They only stay like that for a brief moment but it feels longer, the closeness of it weaving around them like a cocoon, as if they are the only two people in existence.

When Trip breaks away, Malcolm’s expression is lighter somehow, calmer. “What even was that?” he asks, a faint blush colouring his pale features.

“Does it matter?” 

“No, I suppose not.”

“Did I mention I’m glad you’re back?”

Malcolm smiles and picks up his fork. “Once or twice.” 

* * *

By the time they are done eating, Malcolm is looking grey, exhausted, but he surprises Trip by saying, “Do you mind if we take a detour on the way back?”

“Where’d you have in mind?”

He expects Malcolm to cite his quarters, or the armoury perhaps, but instead Malcolm says, “Maintenance shaft C.”

A chill comes over him. “That’s where those creatures were playing around with the plasma regulators.” 

“Yes. Junction twelve to be precise.”

“But there’s nothing there now.”

“I know, I’d just like to make sure. Call it closure, if you will.” 

There is something in Malcolm’s manner that is worrying him. His words are casual enough but his body language is tense, forced. 

“I don’t know...”

“Please, Trip.” 

Reluctantly he gives in. “All right. But I’m warning you, if you collapse on me, I’m taking you right back to Phlox.”

* * *

  
Malcolm doesn’t collapse. He has a determined air about him, grim and silent. 

They arrive at the maintenance shaft. There’s no one else about. These walkways are short on space, and Trip finds it kind of awkward manoeuvring round whilst surreptitiously trying to support Malcolm, but eventually they get to the junction.

Malcolm leans against the wall, catching his breath, whilst Trip undoes the conduit’s outer casing. He lifts the casing away to expose the circuitry underneath. “See?”

Malcolm reaches out and traces his fingers over the exact position where the alien wires once were. 

“It all vanished, same time you did. Good job too, I had a hell of a time trying to remove it. Probably would have ended up jettisoning the whole...” He stops at the look on Malcolm’s face.

“What is it?”

Malcolm smiles, but the smile is full of misery. He takes his hand away from the panel. He hesitates, and then, barely above a whisper, he says, “I want to go home.” 

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. “Back to Earth?” He is unable to keep the shock from his voice. His head is reeling at the implications of what Malcolm is saying; that they have failed him in some way, that they haven’t been enough for him. That he no longer considers Enterprise ‘home’. That he is leaving.

Them Malcolm lets out this sound, like a laugh but uglier, a half-exhale, half-sob. “Not Earth.” He is still looking fixedly ahead of him, clenching his jaw so hard that he can barely get the words out. “Back to the transport.” 

He stares at Malcolm, horrified, feeling like he’s just been gut-punched. He wants to take a step back, and another, and another, and it requires all his willpower just to stay where he is. 

“It was incredible,” Malcolm says in that same awful, gritted voice, as if he is forcing every word out. “There was this interconnectedness, this tremendous sense of belonging. It was perfect. Everything was better there. I was better. And now...” He chokes and breaks off. 

Of the many, many responses that are flooding his mind, in the end Trip says the only thing he can, the only thing that he knows for certain he will not regret saying later.

He swallows. “Tell me more.”


	7. Chapter 7

Ninth iteration: Phlox 

He breathed a distinctly unprofessional sigh of relief as Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker left the sickbay. He was fond of the Lieutenant; Reed was conscientious and attentive, and always so terribly serious, a trait that both amused him and that reminded him, somewhat painfully, of Mettus, his youngest son. Yet these past few days had been rather trying.

After his initial distress, the Lieutenant had withdrawn into himself, unusually compliant with treatment. Then, as he gradually regained his strength, his anger and indeed antagonism had increased to a startling degree. 

Phlox recalled their most recent conversation, which had taken place earlier on that morning. The night had been a bad one and Reed was resting on the biobed, listlessly watching him clean out the tank of his Edosian slugs. 

“Ah, Lieutenant, would you mind passing me the root leaf? I am a little indisposed, as you can see.” He wiggles his hand and slime drips from his fingers. 

He hears a faint sigh and then creaking as Reed levers himself off the biobed, the dull tap of the crutch on the sickbay floor. 

“It’s in that cupboard there,” he says, gesturing, “in the silver canister next to the larvae.”

Reed retrieves it and then balances with the crutch as he hands it to him. Instead of moving back to the biobed, he stays, leaning on the countertop for support. 

“My father collects insects,” Reed says after a while.

“Does he now?” 

“I think he fancies himself as an amateur entomologist.”

“A worthy occupation. The insect world has a great deal to teach us, not least in the field of medicine.” He smiles at Reed. “I’d like to meet him one day.” 

“You remind me of him.” But there is something in Reed’s eyes that tells him this isn’t a compliment.

“Oh?”

“He doesn’t suffer fools gladly either.”

He blinks. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.” 

Reed shrugs and looks away. “Did you know that I’m afraid of drowning?” he says, in a deceptively conversational tone. “Aquaphobia, they call it.”

“I didn’t know that,” he says carefully. 

“My father wouldn’t hear of it. _ “Pull yourself together and get on with it,” _ he’d say. Mind over matter and all that.” His eyes flick to Phlox. _“_ _Positive attitude.”_

It takes him a moment to place the phrase. It was after that incident with the minefield. _“_ _It can't be ethical to cause a patient this much pain,”_ the Lieutenant had complained during his recovery.  


“ _It's unethical to harm a patient,”_ he’d answered cheerily. _ “I can inflict as much pain as I like. A positive attitude is vital to the healing process._”

“He used to take me swimming every week,” Reed continued, before he could say anything. “Wouldn’t let me out the pool until I’d done the required lengths. Set by him, of course, some ridiculously high number.” His whole body is tense as he goes inward, remembering. “I was terrified; each time I knew I wouldn’t be able to finish, but nothing I could say would make him change his mind. It was like pleading with a stone.” He is breathing shallower now, his eyes haunted. “I had no choice other than to keep swimming. Or let myself drown, and obviously I wasn’t going to let that happen...” His mouth twists in a grimace. “He was utterly without compassion or mercy.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, “that must have been very traumatic for you. Although I fail to see the comparison - “

“Do you remember when I got shot on Terra Nova?” Reed says, snapping his head up to glare at him, and he is surprised by the sudden change. “You told the Captain that it was all right to leave me behind with a bullet in my leg. _“He’ll be fine for a few hours.”_ Well I wasn’t fine, and it wasn’t just a few hours.”

He recoils from the heat in those words. “As I recall, you weren’t in any immediate danger - “ 

“And all these exercises you’re making me do.” He jabs at the crutch. “It was the same after that Romulan mine and it’s the same now. I told you it hurts but you’re not listening to me.”

“Come now, Lieutenant,” he says, appealing to common sense, “there’s bound to be some discomfort initially, and we’re mitigating that with the appropriate medication. But I’m not inflicting pain on you for the sake of it. These exercises are for your own good.”

The look Reed gives him is spiteful and triumphant. “That’s exactly what my father used to say.”

Yes, the Lieutenant’s resentment towards him was quite troubling, although during the visits with Captain Archer, he was his usual reticent self.

It was almost as if Reed was punishing him. In one sense it was understandable; after all, the Lieutenant had suffered and was still suffering, and needed someone to blame. However, that made it rather more difficult to offer help when the Lieutenant kept pushing him away. 

And yet in the night time, when Reed woke sobbing from his nightmares, he would claw at him as a young child might, desperately seeking safety and reassurance. 

Phlox shook his head and glanced at the chronometer, wondering how the two men were faring. He trusted that this time away from the confines of sickbay, and from him, would do the Lieutenant some good.

* * *

** Trip **

  
“I mean it,” Trip says, and he does, though he feels sick. “Tell me everything.”

And so Malcolm talks, haltingly, without looking at him, a jumble of imagery and impressions, almost dream-like, and Trip doesn’t quite understand and he’s not sure Malcolm truly does either, yet he listens as best he can, and when the words dwindle away Malcolm waits in angry expectation, shoulders set defiantly as if physically bracing himself for Trip’s reaction -

and Trip does something he’s longed to do ever since they got Malcolm back. He puts his arms around him and pulls him close, and he feels Malcolm flinch, tolerating it, and at first he thinks he’s made a huge mistake; this is Malcolm after all, he hardly ever initiates contact and certainly never invites it, except - 

except for that one time when they were drunk and waiting to die on that shuttlepod and they’d heard Hoshi’s voice over the comm system and Malcolm had let out a yell and enveloped him in his blanket, almost knocking him out his seat -

and he’s seen the way Malcolm lights up when the Captain touches him, all those pats of encouragement and praise, his flicker of delight every time it happens - 

and really, that should have clued him in because all at once Malcolm melts into the hug, and Trip staggers slightly and shifts his weight, better able to get a hold of him now that Malcolm’s not all corners and edges, and he feels Malcolm return the pressure as he grips the back of his jumpsuit, and it seems so obvious now and Trip wonders at how he missed it - that Malcolm Reed thrives on touch, and maybe he hasn’t been held like this for a long time, certainly not by his family if the stories are to be believed, and probably not by his friends, and maybe it’s even been years.

* * *

Their little excursion to the maintenance shaft, and the effort of unburdering himself, drains the last of Malcolm’s strength and Trip ends up carrying Malcolm back to sickbay after all. Phlox takes one look and rushes over, and together they help him back on to the biobed. 

He watches as Phlox fusses round him and imagines his reaction to Malcolm’s confession. The Captain’s reaction. They would likely feel hurt, bewildered, betrayed even. Perhaps they would even try to persuade Malcolm that he felt otherwise. And he sees how alone his friend must have felt. 

For his own part, he is not comfortable with what Malcolm has told him, far from it. Yet at the same time, he’s not surprised. This is Malcolm, after all. Just when he thinks he’s got him pegged, Malcolm will go and do something or say something entirely unexpected. Malcolm is still a mystery to him, and it’s also gratifying to know that Malcolm feels the same way about him.

“ _I've invested far too much time trying to figure you out, Mister Tucker. I'm not about to accept that it was all for nothing.”_

That ill-fated shuttle ride together had been a revelation, not least because he had seen the depth of care, and indeed, love, that Malcolm had for the crew of Enterprise. He can’t accept that such feelings are just gone.

“Are you all right, Commander?” Phlox says, and he jumps. “You’re looking a bit peaky.”

“I’m fine,” he says, “just tired from helping Malcolm back. He’s heavier than he looks.” Before Phlox can ask any further questions, he says, “see you around, Doc.”

* * *

He carries Malcolm’s secret with him, back to Engineering, and later that night, to his quarters.

_“I want to go home.”_

The words are deeply disturbing, a refrain that gains more power over time, and he feels at a loss to know what to do. 

As he tosses and turns in his bunk, for some reason his mind keeps coming back to T’Pol. He knows Malcolm has a thing for her, although personally he’s more inclined to see it as a form of hero worship - T’Pol is everything that Malcolm himself aspires to be; fearless, disciplined, brilliant.

But T’Pol is also wise, and furthermore, she channels a wisdom that runs deep and ancient. He has a feeling they’re gonna need that kind of wisdom to get through this.


	8. Chapter 8

Tenth iteration: Archer

“The Tarkaleans are asking why their people couldn’t be saved like Lieutenant Reed was.”

Archer sets his cup down hard, and the coffee slops over the side. “It wasn’t a question of - “

On the screen, Admiral Forrest holds up his hand. “Jonathan, I wasn’t accusing you. I’ve read the reports. I reminded them that we lost twenty-nine of our own people, too.” 

“Did you tell them our ship’s doctor was willing to blow himself up along with Malcolm if anything went wrong? That he had a sword of Damocles hanging over his head the entire time he was in that shuttle?” 

He doesn’t add that his life had also been at risk. He’d deliberately avoided including that detail in the report because he knew Starfleet Command would accuse him of needlessly endangering his life over that of his ship and crew. But Starfleet Command hadn’t been through what he had. 

He still has nightmares about that day on the transport. He remembers trying so hard to hold onto Malcolm, as if the transporter would somehow understand that it was supposed to take Malcolm away too. And then when he’d materialised back on Enterprise, his fingers had closed on cold air. 

“I’m making sure they know how... ‘unique’ his situation was,” the Admiral is saying. “I suspect they’ve been talking with the Vulcans.”

“Have they now.” Beside him, Porthos growls, sensing his anger. 

“How’s Lieutenant Reed doing?” 

He exhales, forcing himself to calm down. “He’s making progress. It’s slow, but Doctor Phlox says he should make a full recovery in time.”

Forrest nods his head. “I’m glad. He was damned lucky. Have you debriefed him yet?” 

“The Doctor thinks it’s too soon. He’s still adjusting to being back.”

Which is true, although it isn’t the whole story.

“Medically speaking, there’s no reason why he can’t return to his quarters,” Phlox had said quietly. “I’d like to keep him under observation here a while longer though.” 

Archer had glanced over at Malcolm, who was sitting on the biobed, ostensibly reading a padd although he had the feeling the padd was more of a barrier, or a shield maybe.  Malcolm seemed distracted, as if he was listening for something that no one else could hear, and generally his manner was becoming increasingly indifferent. It was a far cry from his sharp as a tack armoury officer, who was usually so observant and aware of his surroundings that it sometimes felt as if he had the human version of Porthos on the bridge. 

“You don’t think he’d do better in his own quarters? In an environment that’s familiar to him?”

“No. He’s showing signs of mild depression; not uncommon in burn victims, or those who’ve been through trauma - and I don’t want to isolate him further. Besides, in his current state, I wouldn’t trust him to look after himself properly.”

He frowned. “Has he talked to you at all?”

“Unfortunately not.” A look of displeasure passed over the doctor’s usually congenial features, although Archer suspected the emotion was directed inward rather than at Malcolm. “I’ve been in contact with several colleagues who have more experience in this area than I do. In the meantime I’ve encouraged Commander Tucker to spend time with him. Perhaps Mister Reed will feel more comfortable opening up to him instead.”

“Let’s hope so.” He was unable to keep the worry from his voice. He couldn’t accept that they’d beaten the odds in getting Malcolm back only to have him slip through their fingers again. 

On the monitor, Forrest looks at him shrewdly. “Don’t let your personal feelings get in the way with this, Jonathan. Placating the Vulcans meant promising we’d share whatever intel we could glean from Lieutenant Reed. The High Command has been asking about that too, by the way.”

He bites his tongue against his first response, then he says, “I understand, but tell them he’s not ready yet. When he is, he’ll be fully debriefed. And not a second before.”

* * *

** Malcolm **

He lies on the biobed, resting. He’s done a lot of that lately. Resting. That, and the rehabilitation regime that Phlox has him following. “You should be able to return to light duties in a month or so,” Phlox says brightly, as if this will motivate him. 

But the words incite a dull sort of dread.  _Return to duty._ He can’t imagine it. It is too abstract, too impossible, and ultimately too overwhelming to consider. It is easier to simply lie back on this biobed and rest.

The memory of the voices is starting to fade. “Do you remember what they sounded like?” he asks desperately of the only other person on the ship who has heard them.

“I try not to,” Phlox replies grimly, and it is all he can do not to smash the medical tray onto the floor. His searing anger towards the kind-hearted doctor scares him.

It is another form of stasis, this limbo of his. He is unable to go back and unwilling to go on. He cannot conceive of any future which has him in it.

And then there is Trip. 

“Do you trust me?” Trip says to him one day when Phlox is elsewhere, _“do you trust that I have your best interests at heart, that I know what will be good for you, to bring you back to life?”_

Actually, Trip doesn’t quite say it like that. Trip’s version is not nearly so eloquent and he has to run the words through his Yank filter first. It’s the gist of it though, and Trip says them with his arm draped carelessly round him as if he were a piece of furniture.

“Why do you ask?” he says, suspicious. 

Trip clears his throat. “I told T’Pol what you told me.”

He stiffens and Trip must feel the change because the grip around his shoulders becomes tighter. 

“Before you get mad, hear me out. She said - “ Trip scans the sickbay to make sure Phlox hasn’t returned. “She said you’re grieving and that you need to say goodbye to what you lost.”

“Why, so I can put it all behind me?” he sneers, “pretend it never happened?”, although in truth, he’s badly frightened. 

And Trip seems to understand that somehow, because he doesn’t seem fazed. “No. It’s sort of the opposite. She said it’s the start, the first step along the path.”

“The path to what?” 

“Um, let me see...” Trip releases him as he thinks. “To adapting. Or becoming something new. Something like that.”

“Well, that’s as clear as mud.”

“I wasn’t exactly taking notes, Malcolm,” Trip says rather testily. “See, this is why you need to talk to her.”

He doesn’t reply, but Trip is used to his silences and after a while rests a hand on his back. The weight of it keeps him from drifting, back to the transport, to the murmurations in the darkness. 

It’s strange. Ever since he returned, he’s found that people keep wanting to touch him. They can’t seem to help it. They shake his hand, or they pat his shoulder. Maybe they’re making sure he’s real.

Hoshi had hugged him, as Trip predicted. Travis, too.

Hoshi stands in front of him. They are nearly the same height, though he’s a little taller than she is. 

He has always protected her. He is very fond of her.

He cuts out her eyeball and replaces it with an ocular implant. Then he severs her arm at the elbow and attaches a prosthetic hand. Her linguistic skills are no longer required because the words have ascended into birdsong.

He blinks. She is still standing there, whole, her eyes shimmering and bright.

“What’s wrong?” Trip asks.

He rubs his forehead, unsettled. “Nothing’s wrong.” _Everything is. He is._

He tells Trip something that has been weighing on him. “The Captain will want a full debrief soon.”

Trip jumps off the biobed and faces him, indignant. “He’s not putting pressure on you is he?” The unexpected concern floods him with warmth.

“No, he hasn’t said anything. But it’s standard procedure. I expect it will happen sooner or later.” He looks down at his hands. “And Phlox was talking about returning to duty.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it...” Trip trails off as he’s shaking his head.

“I can’t do it, not any of it, not anymore. And I don’t want to.” He glares at Trip defiantly, and to his frustration his eyes fill with tears.

Trip’s gaze is compassionate, yet his voice is firm as he says, “You need to talk to T’Pol.”

“No, I don’t.” The tears are spilling over now and he swipes at them impatiently.

“What was the name of the transport?”

“I - what?” He is thrown by the non-sequitur.

“You’ve been calling it ‘the transport’. But it was still a ship, right? It had to have a name.”

Then he realises that he does know after all. “ _Arctic One_. Otherwise known as the _The Falcon_ , after Robert Falcon Scott. The polar explorer.” He brightens at the recollection. “Drake nicknamed it ‘The Turkey’ because it kept breaking down. He said it spent more time on the ground than it did in the sky.”

His smile falls away as meets Trip’s gaze, distressed.

“I don’t - “ His throat closes up as he’s hit by a spasm of sadness so strong that it feels as if his heart has stopped. He pushes off from the biobed and then leans against it, gripping the side.

“That was one of the rituals T’Pol told me about,” Trip says, when it has passed. “You start with the names, so you know what you’ve lost.”

He stares at Trip bleakly.

“I really think talking to her would help,” Trip adds softly.

He looks at the biobed, imagines curling up on it and closing his eyes and never opening them again.

He is so tired of being in pain.

He swallows hard and looks back at Trip.

_Do you trust me?_

“Will you - “ He falters. “Could you - “ He can’t get the words out.

“Come with you?”

He nods and Trip punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Try and stop me.”


	9. Chapter 9

Eleventh iteration: T’Pol

What do the Vulcan tenets say about grief? 

They say that grief is a logical response to losing that which is loved. 

They say that grief must be honoured and witnessed by others, lest the individual believe that they are alone. 

They say that grief is akin to trees; that just as a wound runs through the tree rings, visible only when the tree is felled, so the wound of grief runs through the essence of a person. Yet, the tenets say, a tree does not stop growing simply because it is wounded; rather, it continues ever outward, laying down new bark each year. In the same way, a person’s life does not come to an end when something beloved is lost. The wound is there and always shall be, but life goes on, eclipsing the grief. 

Unfortunately, the Vulcan tenets do not tell you how to deal with two humans who arrive at your quarters one evening, one who remarks brashly as he enters, “What’s with all the candles? You planning on holding some kind of seance?” and the other who avoids your gaze and appears more than a little uncomfortable to be entering your personal living space.

However, T’Pol’s time onboard Enterprise has taught her that with humans, things are not always what they seem. So she looks past Commander Tucker’s ill-judged attempt at humour and sees that he is trying to put his friend at ease, as well as endeavouring to conceal his own worry. 

And that worry is well-founded. As she rises to greet them, Lieutenant Reed meets her eyes for the first time and she realises that there is a very real possibility he will end up taking a phase pistol to his head. And she recognises that look because she once saw it in herself. 

“Commander, Lieutenant. Please be seated,” and she gestures to the mat in front of her. 

Tucker aids Reed in sitting, and though the room is dim, she still sees the Lieutenant’s wince of pain. He leans stiffly against her bunk, his legs outstretched in front of him, as Tucker sprawls easily beside him. 

She is reminded of a moment in the gymnasium, many months ago, when he was conducting a training drill for some of the senior staff. The Lieutenant had been impressing upon them the need for agility and flexibility, encouraging them to stretch beyond their capabilities, and some - chiefly Commander Tucker and Ensign Mayweather - were complaining noisily. They called for a demonstration. 

So the Lieutenant had reached down, his legs straight, and placed his palms upon the floor. Then he shifted his weight and in one slow, fluid motion he raised his legs into a handstand. He held the stance for a moment, perfectly still and ramrod straight, displaying a level of control and grace that she had not been expecting, and, judging from the reactions of the others, neither had they. Then he’d pushed off, landing on his feet again, laughing as he did so. And she remembers thinking to herself at the time how very young they all were. These humans. 

How different from the man sitting before her now, silent and grey. 

She speaks to him directly, knowing that he would value such an approach. “Commander Tucker informs me that you are having difficulty reintegrating into life on Enterprise - “

“I didn’t put it quite like that,” Tucker interrupts, and she continues, “because you prefer the existence onboard the transport to the one you have here. Is that an accurate assessment?”

Reed is looking at the floor, his arms folded around him. After a moment, he nods, shame written in his posture. 

“If your time on the transport was indeed as meaningful to you as you expressed to Commander Tucker, then your response on returning to Enterprise is entirely logical.”

He looks at her quickly, surprised. “Logical?” 

She bows her head. “Loss, any loss, produces a physiological and emotional response. It is simple biochemistry.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Leave it to the Vulcans to reduce everything to cold, hard science.”

But her words have elicited a change in Reed, albeit a very small one. He sits straighter now, paying attention. 

“It would be helpful if you could describe your experience.”

He glances at Tucker. “I thought the Commander already told you.” 

“I would like to hear it from you also.“

And so, hesitantly, he begins. Uncharacteristically for him, his account is highly subjective, and he grows visibly frustrated when he is not able to find the appropriate language. For his part, Commander Tucker looks uncomfortable, pained even, and yet at various points he rests a hand on the Lieutenant’s shoulder. 

When he trails off, annoyed at his failure to convey what it was like, she retrieves a padd. 

“This contains Doctor Phlox’s research into the nanoprobe technology, as well as all the data obtained by Starfleet, the Vulcans and the Tarkaleans concerning the cybernetic humanoids and their vessel. I would like you to utilise this information to compile a more comprehensive account of your time on the transport. A chronological order might be beneficial.”

He takes the padd wonderingly, almost reverently, then he looks at her, the barest glint of humour in his eyes. “Homework for next time?”

“If you like. Perhaps Commander Tucker can assist you.”

But beside him, Tucker is frowning. 

She finds out why the next evening, when she is having supper in the messhall. 

“Don’t you think giving Malcolm that padd was a bad idea?”

She sets her spoon down next to her soup.

“I am merely trying to understand what the Lieutenant believes he has lost.”

“But you’re indulging him. He’s just gonna go deeper down the rabbit hole.”

She quirks her brow. “Rabbit hole?”

Tucker sits with an exasperated wave. “It’s an expression. He’s already not thinking clearly, and you go ahead and - 

“Commander,” she says in an attempt to forestall an emotional outburst, “may I remind you that it is not for you to determine whether or not he is thinking clearly. You do not have to agree with his loss in order for it to be valid.”

Tucker regards her suspiciously. “This wouldn’t be some underhanded attempt to get information out of Malcolm, would it? You sure you won’t be sharing this with your friends in the High Command?”

She fixes him with an icy stare. “What the Lieutenant chooses to share is confidential. I am merely trying to help him, as you requested.”

He holds her gaze for a moment, then he sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Right. I’m sorry. It’s just, from what I heard, the High Command are still sore about losing Malcolm as their lab rat. They’re putting an awful lot of pressure on Starfleet to debrief him.”

“I’m aware of that. The Lieutenant’s well-being is my only concern, I can assure you.”

He nods, then raps his knuckles on the table as he stands. “I appreciate your help, Sub-Commander.”

”Commander,” she says, before he can leave. “How do humans usually mourn? What rituals do you have for the deceased?”

He sits down again, puzzled. “Well, there’s the funeral. It’s our chance to say our goodbyes. Someone gives a eulogy to honour their memory. Then I guess there’s the wake.”

“The wake.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of like a celebration. We share stories, reminisce. And then after that... I mean, there’s anniversaries.”

“From the pronouns you are using, you perform these rituals within a collective?”

He nods, understanding dawning, as she says, “Lieutenant Reed is mourning in isolation. Furthermore, he is alone in perceiving his experience to be a loss. Therefore, our role is to honour his loss by listening to it in its entirety, and to share in the commonality of the loss, even if we are unable to empathise with the particulars. Otherwise,” she finishes gravely, “if he is not allowed to grieve sufficiently, then I fear he will become consumed.”

* * *

  
Twelfth iteration: Trip

These things happen next.

“You can’t keep staying in sickbay,” he tells his friend.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not actually sick, Malcolm!” He regrets the words as soon as he says them. Shouting at Malcolm never does any good because Malcolm hardly ever shouts back; he just goes quiet, taking it, like he deserves it. Maybe it’s a trait carried over from childhood; from what Malcolm’s told him about his dad, he gets the feeling Malcolm must have been shouted at a lot as a kid. 

“I think,” he tries again, “it’s not about you wanting to stay in sickbay. It’s about not wanting to move back into your quarters.” He takes the silence as agreement. “So come room with me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There’s space for a roll up bed, and some of the crew bunk together anyway. Plus it would make it a lot easier to work on T’Pol’s report.”

Malcolm shakes his head. “I can’t believe we’re actually discussing this.”

“Why not? We already spent nearly a week together in that shuttlepod, and aside from the sleep-talking, I don’t recall you having any particularly bad habits.”

“Well as I recall, you had plenty,” Malcolm shoots back.

They glare at one another.

“Look,” Malcolm says eventually, “it’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer...”

“But?”

Malcolm scans the empty sickbay, searching for the right words. “You’re the chief engineer. Senior staff. Not to mention third in line to command Enterprise.

“So? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Officers of our rank don’t have roommates. It’s unprofessional. The Captain - “

“To hell with the Captain,” he says fiercely, and Malcolm jumps. “And to hell with everyone else. I told you already. None of that matters anymore. Not to me. Not since - “. He breaks off.

_I’m not losing you again_ ,  he wants to say, but doesn’t. So he ends up saying, “It’s up to you,” and he feels Malcolm burning a hole in his back as he walks away.

* * *

  
He’s present when Malcolm tells Phlox that he’s moving out of sickbay to come room with him, and also that he’s started seeing T’Pol. Phlox’s response is so full of relief and eager goodwill that Malcolm has the grace to blush a little, and flicks a rueful glance in his direction. 

It turns out that Malcolm’s a pretty good roommate. They quickly fall into a rhythm; breakfast in the mess hall, and then they go their separate ways, Malcolm to his physical therapy sessions with Phlox, and he to his duties. It’s plain sailing onEnterprise; there’s new planets to explore and new star systems to map, but nothing out the ordinary, and he sometimes wonders if the Captain hasn’t planned it like that.

They rendezvous for dinner, and oftentimes others will come eat with them; Hoshi, Travis. Malcolm has the tendency to drift off during mealtimes, whereas before, he would join in with conversations willingly, even animatedly. Trip sees them noticing the difference.

Some evenings they work on the report. They lay down a chronology of events, parallel lives on the transport and Enterprise, the former a mirror inversion of the latter, a ghost realm. 

And a lot of the time Malcolm just sleeps. The daily rehab takes a lot out of him, as does the sifting and processing of all the data on T’Pol’s padd, and he’ll usually start to slump before the evening’s out. Trip will push him towards the direction of the bed and then a couple hours later he’ll hunker down himself on the roll out. It’s an easy set-up, all things considering. Except for the nightmares.

Most nights Malcolm will toss and turn, mumbling unintelligibly, and if Trip shoves his head under the pillow then he can usually drown him out. But sometimes he wakes to the sound of shouting, and he stumbles groggily off the floor, his heart racing, until he finds a part of Malcolm that he can grab hold of to shake him awake.

“Sorry,” Malcolm will say gruffly, and turn away, and they both go back to sleep, and that is that. 

And one time, it’s really bad, and they don’t go back to sleep.

* * *

**  
Malcolm **

Perhaps it was because Phlox had given him a break from physiotherapy that day, and so come the evening he wasn’t nauseatingly tired and off his head on painkillers like he normally was. He felt clearer in a way that he hadn’t for a long time, and he’d actually been able to understand a lot of the doctor’s research concerning the nanoprobes. He idly wonders if it could have some application on Enterprise. 

“What did you do with the nanoprobes after you transported them out of me?” 

Trip looks over at him from the computer where he’s working on crew reports. 

“I put them in a jar and gave them to Phlox as a pet. What do you think I did with them?”

“All right,” he says, indignant, “I was only asking.”

Trip sighs, looking tired, and he feels a stab of guilt because he know it’s because of him. “We destroyed them with omicron particles.”

“Of course.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Still, if their properties could be mimicked somehow... Enterprise already employs neural networks in some of its systems. Imagine if we introduced nanoprobe behaviours into them. Reaction times would increase for starters.“

To his credit, Trip doesn’t shut him down. “Just let me finish these reports, and I’ll take a look.”

It feels strange, to be talking to Trip in this way. Not just relating his memories as one would a dream, but to actually be discussing tangible things like vessel schematics, biometric data and spectral analysis. Looking at photographs and scans together, it makes it feel real. It confirms that what he experienced did actually happen; the hive mind had indeed existed, and therereally was a neural link that once connected him to everyone and everything. Itbrings him closer to what he lost, speaks it back into life. 

When they eventually call it a night, his mind is racing with possibilities. He hears Trip’s slow, deep breathing indicating sleep, and he resigns himself to a night of wakefulness. 

_He’s standing on the deck of the Falcon. Snow is falling, softly, settling on the alcoves, glistening over plasma manifolds, blanketing the deck._

_“It’s beautiful,” he says to Trip, who’s standing beside him._

_“What is?”_

_“Why, the snow.” He holds out his hand and the flakes sweep gently down into his palm._

“ _Malcolm, this isn’t snow. It’s ash.”_

_He is suddenly aware of a huge fire roaring behind him. There is an explosion and he stumbles and falls to his knees. All around him the ground is warping._

_Now there are stars in place of the deck. He reaches for Trip and his hand goes right through him as Trip disintegrates into ash and is sucked into the breach. The whole ship is being reduced to ashes before his eyes and it is all rushing past him, and he is crying; shocked, hollow, dry-eyed cries that come from deep within_

and now he is in Trip’s quarters and Trip is holding him tightly by the shoulders, shaking him and shouting at him until he stops abruptly. He blinks. 

“Did I wake you?” he asks, almost conversationally.

“Uh yeah, kinda,” Trip says, eyeing him warily.

“Sorry.”

“Not a problem. Want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

“You scared the life out of me. I thought it was one of your Reed alerts going off.”

“Sorry,” he says again.

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head.

“Well, all right then.” But Trip doesn’t get up, not right away. Instead he slouches against the wall, yawning.

He reaches out and touches Trip’s arm to make sure of him, then withdraws it quickly. 

Then to his dismay he finds himself crying again, so quietly that Trip doesn’t even notice at first, and then he hears Trip say “hey,” and he feels strong arms enfolding him in an embrace, and now Trip is rubbing his back saying, “it’s gonna be okay, it’s gonna be okay,” over and over, and that only makes him cry harder, because he can’t see how it ever will be.

* * *

  
And yet the Vulcan tenets also say that even though the grief remains, the pain does not.

It melts away, like snow.


End file.
